The Drunkards in the street are calling one another, Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay, — Publicans and wantons — Calling, laughing, calling, While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away.

Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, This comforter, this fitful wind divine? I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre — I have no right to God, he is not mine.

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell. I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing Until the grayness of my soul grows white.